SWEET DORTHEA AND THE NATURE OF EVIL
© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
Eyes like a circus and tongue like a snake, the birth of a lover that
heaven did forsake, experience intangible in the shifting mythic light,
the subtlety of daybreak and the power of the knife bone night, she
was born to please but she is bored with her duty, so she sings a
catastrophe and it feels like beauty, and when she moves like a hungry
cat you will kill to bring her food, she is the rainbow she is the swamp
she is the global mood, I saw her once in a crystal ball as a storm over
a city, she is the inspiration of every prophecy of pity, but your
appetite says much more than her blank desire, but her coolness is
much more like a frozen fire, and your tears are just her favorite drink
your sighs the wind in her sails, and in the crucifixion pride she acts
the nails, watch her walk down a lonely avenue at sunset, the way the
darkness swallows her body your match is made and met.
And you begin to want her, and you begin to love her.
It’s just practicing your fall from grace, chasing mermaids swimming
thru light breeding space, she is subtlety and purpose with her
Rembrandt face, and your lust is an open wound on which she feeds.
In the light she looks like an angel in the dark she looks like the light,
and desire is a fighter and reason is a fight, and the moon’s the only
cure inside the curious night, she will give your angles thoughts and
forms their deeds.
She delivers desperation in the artifice of a sunset, and you will trust
her shadow and plead heresy to regret, she’ll make you feel like a
master when your really just a pet, there’s a different world in each eye
and you look deep.
She is the honesty of a black rainbow, and you touch the rain and you
live the rain and your sick to know, so you hoard the treasure of the
thunder’s woe, until you have nothing to give and only temptation to
With earth hurt curves and autumn motion, a desktop mind and a
blood letting ocean, tapestry of silence; lips on the bullet, in a god sick
fever in creation’s pulpit, asphalt fury; sex bed shame, overtones and
whispers and tongue dust fame, nervous art chaos; clock paced thrill,
carnival persona undressed to kill.
And you begin to need her, and you think she needs you.